All That Remains
by flutflutflyer
Summary: Mother's Day is a time of remembrance, a time of thanks, and a time of love. Your highest high is determined by your lowest low; the storm must come before the sun, and the grief must come before the love. Mako and Bolin.


A/N: Thank you to every mother out there for allowing me to know the amazingly unique person currently reading this. If you still have your mother, I suggest you go tell her, right now, that you love her. And if you don't . . . you still do. In your memories. Never forget.

Love, Mako and Bolin

* * *

When he awakens, he can still feel her phantom arms around him, hear her words of love whispered into his ear, smell the scent of her hair—like that of bread baking, with a hint of vanilla.

Then his eyes flicker open, and he sees the end of the ancient couch, sagging with weight, stale and musty, creaking with the wrinkles stretching across the cushions. With one hand he gropes for a shirt, the heat of the previous evening given way to the chill of morning, and sleepily covers himself with it, muttering a promise to be up in five minutes, tops.

The crinkle of paper.

His eyelids flutter, letting in a barrage of light that elicits a curse and a desperate attempt to move the shirt onto his face. More crinkling. Steadily he inspects the garment with careful hands, fingers closing around the source of the noise.

A note.

"_Bo. Going to be gone today. Will return later. Go to work, do the chores, and don't be stupid. No practice today. Your brother._"

As he reads it, he snorts. "That's right, bro, leave me alone. Thanks. I needed that." He's not serious; of all people, _he_ knows about the occasional justification for leaving early in the morning, and he's grateful his brother didn't wake him up as he could've. At the same time, with him alone in the attic, there's no reason for him not to push it. "At least I've got you, right, Pabu?" The fire ferret is nowhere to be found, at least not in the swift look-about. He frowns, mentally thinking through things. There's something he's forgetting, something important that was to occur on this day, something that he can't remember at the moment.

The calendar on the opposite wall comes into focus.

Someone has circled today's date repeatedly with a red marker, writing in the fateful words that nearly make his heart stop.

Mother's Day.

"_Oh_." It comes out as more of a breath, an exhalation, an expiration, than a word. "Hey, bro, thanks for leaving on . . . _today_. Thanks a lot." Now it's all bark, no bite, the sarcasm drained out of him, leaving a limp noodle in its wake, a limp noodle hurt at the thought of his only family _gone_ the day he's needed the most.

_Mother's Day_.

Fighting fatigue, he rolls from the couch, wincing as his shoulder blades and tailbone whine from impact with the hard floor. While he pulls his shirt on, he notes the scent of fresh stew, once hot but at the moment most likely at room temperature, wafting through the air. Lurching to his feet, he earthbends the bowl of leftover surprise from the "kitchen" counter, dropping back to the ground to eat it. Or, rather, to try to eat it. His normally voracious appetite is gone, pooled to the bottom of his stomach, pushed down by the murmuring echoes of memories filling the foggy cavern of his mind.

He puts the breakfast on the couch, glaring angrily at the bits of meat and canned vegetables floating in a brackish-brown puddle of slimy ooze "Bro, what is this? I don't even—you're _great_ at cooking," he snaps at his brother's absence. "Why this today? _To_day? Oh, right, I forgot you had to _leave_ in a _hurry_." The grief transforms itself into anger. "Today, of all days. What is it this time, _huh_? Another chance to attract fangirls?" Jabbing his hands into his pockets, he stalks over to the radio on the little table by the window, glancing outside at the sun, cheerily bright without a right to be. "Maybe you're going to go do some lightning generation at your _job_. Ooh, the mighty Master Mako is so _impressive_, he can make lightning come out of his hands." The pink dawn is already fading into the blue of Yue Bay and the gold of the Pro-bending Arena. A sigh escapes him. The sun _should_ be shining as a celebration, as a herald and a salute to mothers everywhere.

Even the ones who couldn't make it.

Puffs of water vapour solidify into clouds when he breathes out, dissipating in moments. "You know what?" Pabu's not here. He feels cheated. "I'm _not_ doing to work today." The radio turns on, its knob turned to a station of hard, driving music, the volume turned up as high as possible, until he can feel the beats in the soles of his feet and taste them on his tongue.

Melting into the couch, he curls up into himself, letting the music wash over him. If he were normal, he would rush into his mother's arms, a card in hand, flowers, chocolate, a smile on his face and a thank-you on his lips. If he and Mako weren't dirt poor, he would at least lay a bouquet onto a gravestone, fingers tracing out the words engraved onto the stone, the wetness running down his cheeks dripping onto the soil. He wonders what it would have said.

_She stayed with us until she couldn't, and then she stayed with our hearts._

He doesn't know. He wishes he did. He wishes he could see it in front of him. He wishes his brother were here to embrace him and tell him it's all going to be okay, okay?

But Mako isn't here.

Only the cold and the memories and the shadows in flight are here.

He isn't sure how long he lies there, swallowed by the image of his mother held tightly in his mind, one that has changed over the years until he can barely recall the colour of her eyes. Green. Like his. His mother's eyes.

The rest of her has vanished, leaving the colour, the voice, and the scent.

And he doesn't think the latter two have remained the same.

Try as he might, when he pictures her face, all he sees is Mako, always there for him, hugging him, murmuring promises in the silence of night, protecting him.

He doesn't stir when he senses something soft wriggle between his arms and onto his neck, the fire ferret's fluffy tail tickling his nose. Even then he doesn't move.

Until his brother tramps through the door, scarf pulled up over his mouth, box in hand. Trailing the snow of a late spring frost, winter's last gasping breath before summer takes its hold over the realm once more, Mako collapses to the floor.

Blinded with tears, he manages to choke out, "So _someone_ finally showed up." Outside, night has fallen, swamping the city with its unnatural leer. "All day you couldn't come back. _Noo_. Now that it's too late, you—"

"Ssh." His brother stumbles towards him, landing heavily on the couch, his fingers shaking as the box lid lifts. "I'm sorry I was gone all day. I had to get something." It falls from Mako's shivering hand but is caught by the other brother's, who looks at it. "It's for Mom."

A candle.

A green candle.

A green candle his brother lights with a careful spark.

A green candle whose wick is the single source of light in the darkening room, setting Mako's face aglow, his amber eyes turning to gold.

A green candle like that of bread baking, with a hint of vanilla.

"I looked all over town for it." His brother's words are apologetic and self-loathing yet full of love and pride and serenity at once, and a wisdom and maturity beyond his years. "I'm sorry. Bo, please, forgive me. I just . . . I had to find one."

He can't speak for the lump in his throat, choking him with grief, but the smell of the candle calms him, and Pabu's form cushioning him, and Mako's warmth next to him, a warmth he eagerly snuggles into. His brother's hand rests on his head, absentmindedly stroking his hair. "I'm sorry I was mad at you," he whispers. "And I'm sorry I didn't go to work today or do chores or anything. I didn't even eat breakfast. Forgive me too."

"There's nothing to forgive." Mako's tears, hot and wet, dampen his hair, but he doesn't say anything. "I love you, bro. And I love you too, Mom. I'll never forget you."

"Bro . . . I love you." More tears. The scent of the candle settles deep within his spirit. "I love you, Mako. Mom." One and the same. For the past ten or twelve years it hasn't been his mother taking care of him. It's been Mako.

_She stayed with us until she couldn't, and then she stayed with our hearts, through Mako._

His brother embraces him. "Bolin, I'm always there for you."

"I know." He dissolves into the hug, celebrates the warmth of his brother's breath on his ear, watches the green candle until its flame goes out, as hers did, leaving them in the dark, as she did, leaving him blind and alone, as she did, leaving him with his brother, as she did. "I know."


End file.
